


We're Going To A Gay Bar

by CommunionNimrod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealous John, M/M, Possessive Sex, Sherlock does love to dance after all, Sherlock is terribly bored, and there are other ways to not be bored, going to a gay bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/pseuds/CommunionNimrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without a case, Sherlock is being driven out of his mind with boredom.  He is also being driven out of his mind with his desire for his flat mate and best friend, John Watson.  Since he can have neither, he needs to find another way to silence his mind and occupy himself that doesn't end in turning back to drugs.  The night takes them to a nearby gay bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Going To A Gay Bar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boxxer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boxxer/gifts).



> Gifted to the lovely Boxxer because we just start talking about these things and then I just... can't ignore them. Also inspired by these two pieces of art: http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/97070819409/against-stars-imagine-drunk-sherlock-dancing and http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/97103810569/the-natural-progression-of-drunk-sherlock-dancing

_Bored_.

 

It was awful.  Overwhelmingly awful.  John might sigh and shake his head, but he had _no idea_ what it was like to have a brain like his.  None at all.  John’s brain, while confusingly exceptional in some areas, was plain and boring overall.  Of course being bored wouldn’t affect him in the way it affected Sherlock.  The man would never understand.

 

Curled up on the sofa, the detective fell deeper into his brooding mood, rolling onto his side and staring across the sitting room with a frown on his face.  He hugged his knees up to his chest, silk robe draping across his angular form, allowing him to shrink away as much as he physically could.  He closed his eyes, attempting to fall back into his Mind Palace, listening to the sounds of his flat mate move around in the kitchen.

 

There was always something about John that worked to quiet his mind when it was this overwhelming.  Ever since the doctor had been brought into his life, he’d found that to be an unwavering fact.  Recently, however, that had changed.  His time away had changed him.  He knew that before he’d even come back to London, he knew that as he clung onto the thought of being back in 221B and being back with John again.   _Sentiment_.

 

It was a knee-jerk reaction to automatically scoff at the thought of sentiment.  Years of distancing himself and having an older brother who had the distaste of sentiment and caring as his mantra made it that way.  Besides, he had never seen the point.  It never got him anywhere.  He had gotten where he was in life because of his mind and science and facts.  

 

Until The Fall.

 

The Fall, or The Time Before.  That’s the only way John would refer to the two years apart when Sherlock had faked his death (in what little they did ever discuss it).  It had been a trying time for both of them, in their own ways, and during it all Sherlock very quickly had a new outlook on sentiment.  It turned out that the damn thing actually served to keep him alive as he took down Moriarty’s network.  Every time he was tortured, every time he was so exhausted and pained that he couldn’t see straight, and every single time he was so close to giving in and sticking a needle in his arm, he thought of John Watson.

 

John kept him right.  He should have known then that there was more.  In reality, there had always been more.  Perhaps Sherlock was just closed off and unaccustomed to the ideas that it never registered until he was in the darkest of underground facilities getting tortured for information he never gave up.  Add to it the complicated wave of emotions he suffered through upon his return, John’s anger, and their tension before the older man finally moved back into Baker St, and Sherlock had come to realize something he partially dreaded.

 

He was falling in love with John.

 

There could be no other explanation.  He was becoming irritatingly irrational around his flat mate, and he couldn’t stop his body or his mind from reacting in aggravating ways anymore.  This was part of the reason he couldn’t get his mind to be quiet.  His Mind Palace wasn’t helping.  It was overloaded with sensations and thoughts he couldn’t categorize.  There was no case to occupy him, and he hadn’t even heard from Mycroft for a few days (which was surprising and irritating, because for once he was just about desperate enough to actually accept one of his ridiculous tasks he was always striding in and dumping in their laps).

 

“Sherlock, stop sulking,” came John’s voice, both firm (suggesting the common annoyance he had when he went into these kinds of moods) and light (amused, with a touch of fondness, perhaps at the familiarity of it all).  How it could be both at the same time Sherlock still had yet to figure out, but somehow John managed to achieve it flawlessly.

 

“I need a case, John,” he grumbled, eyes flicking towards movement as he watched a fresh cup of tea being put down on the table in front of him.

 

“Yeah, well, we don’t have one,” John sighed gesturing to the tea before moving to sit in his chair. “Have some tea, maybe play your violin.  You can compose something.  Or start a new experiment?”

 

Sherlock frowned, groaning in irritation and shooting up on the sofa.  John blinked for a few seconds, the only evidence of his surprise, before slowly sipping his own cuppa.  Sherlock glared at the mug in front of him as if it offended his entire thought process, before groaning once again.

 

“It’s all absurdly _boring_ ,” he snapped, grabbing at his hair before shooting to his feet. “I need. A.  CASE.”

 

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock stepped up onto the table and over, storming across the sitting room.  He darted through the kitchen and down the hall towards his bedroom, where he slammed the door shut behind him and slumped against it with a sigh.

 

Something as mundane as tea should not elicit such a frankly hormonal reaction from his body.  Yet his cheeks grew hot and his head became dizzy.  His chest was filled with John and all his breath was taken away and replaced by John.  He couldn’t stand it.  He wanted to grab his infuriating flat mate and kiss him until his lip bled.  He wanted to consume all of John, and draw noises from him no lover ever had before.  He wanted to pull John apart, just so he could put him back together again.  He wanted John to want him all the time, so much that he couldn’t function properly at work or at Tesco.  He _wanted_.

 

It would never happen.  Even if John had an inkling of interest, Sherlock could never reveal how much he wanted to do with him, **to** him.  It was not normal, and it was nothing the man would be accustomed to.  With a sigh, he wandered across the room and crouched down, peering at a floorboard in front of his dresser he knew was loose.  Even as he was pulling it up he knew he needed to stop.  He didn’t, though, until it was set aside and he was lifting from the space a small wooden box.  He licked his lips and opened it, staring at the needle and small bottle nestled inside.  He wanted… He needed his brain to be quiet.  Nothing was working.  It was too much.  This was the only thing that ever worked…

 

But then he thought of John.  He thought of those blue eyes hardening and those delicious-looking lips pressing so thin he could barely see them.  He thought of the disappointment and pain this decision would cause him.  It made Sherlock freeze, staring with wide eyes at something he felt he desperately needed but now no longer wanted.

 

With a snarl, he snapped the box shut and dropped it, snatching the board and securing it back in place tightly.  He ruffled his hair in aggravation and began to pace back and forth across the room.  He needed to think of something.  He needed another solution, or he might truly go mad.

 

\------------------

 

Alone in the sitting room, John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as the door slammed shut and practically rattled the flat.  Sherlock was in one of his insufferably dark moods again, which he should have been prepared for.  Not having a case in over a week always tended to put the detective in a sour disposition, yet it seemed like it was happening quicker than it used to.

 

He glanced over at the cup of tea that was left on the table, untouched by his flat mate.  Also not surprising.  It could never be said that he didn’t try, though.  He worked on finishing his own tea, occasionally turning to peer down the hall the best he could at the shut door.  He wanted desperately to go knock on it and see if there was anything he could do to help.  Maybe he should ring Molly, she if she had anything down at Bart’s she could part with so Sherlock would have something to dissect or experiment on.

 

Feeling a bit defeated, John stood once his mug was empty and took it into the kitchen so he could rinse it out.  Then, he poked his head into the hall to listen for any signs of life from the bedroom at the end of it.  There was a slight tapping noise (wood, maybe?), and a rustling of either clothes or bed sheets, and then nothing.  John didn’t know what to make of it.

 

What did Sherlock do when he was bored and shut off in his room?  John could tell you what **he** tended to do, but… He couldn’t imagine Sherlock doing that kind of thing.  More importantly, he could, but it was always a very bad idea to do so.  More than once he’d caught himself imagining Sherlock stretched across his bed, robe splayed out along the mattress, slender fingers wrapped around himself, and…

 

John shuddered, running a hand through his hair and trying to push the heat off his cheeks.  It only travelled, though, ending up pooled deep in his gut and stirring other parts of his anatomy.  Sighing, he glanced down at his crotch, where the beginnings of a bulge were revealed in his trousers.  Bloody fantastic.  He really needed to start learning how to control this stuff, before something happened in Sherlock’s presence and the man deduced everything in a matter of seconds.  It was bad enough that he was incredibly attracted to his flat mate and had often found himself with the desire for more than what they had.  He didn’t need Sherlock actually finding out about it.

 

The man was married to his work.  They’d gotten close, sure, and they’d finally mended things once Sherlock came home.  They fell back into their normal routines.  They were still a brilliant team, and in a way, they’d gotten closer.  John could tell.  It didn’t help with the things that he wanted.  In some ways, it gave him a small hope that there could be more.  He wanted more.  He had always wanted more.  How had it taken him this long to realize it?

 

He’d met a lot of wonderful women over the past few years.  Sweet and attractive, women any man would be lucky and proud to spend the rest of their lives with.  Yet, when it came down to it, he always chose Sherlock.  Every time.  Even when he’d thought Sherlock dead, when he thought he’d finally started to move on, the outcome remained the same.  He’d felt confident there had been a shot with Mary.  She was everything he had needed, and finally, he could become himself again.  She helped bring him out of the depression he’d sunk into as he mourned.  But the months went on and they never got closer like he thought they would.  He remained distant in ways he wasn’t doing intentionally.  She was very patient with him, but she realized it before he did.

 

“You’re in love, John, but it’s not with me,” she had said.  Her smile had been a bit sad, and John had tried to protest, but all he was met with was reassurances that it was fine.  They finally ended their relationship on very amicable terms, and even now still carried on their friendship.  Sherlock’s return had brought knowing looks from her while they were at work, and even MORE looks when John said he’d moved back into Baker St.

 

Yeah, so he was in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes.  He was in love with probably one of the most unattainable men in London.  He was grateful for the shift in his thinking if for no other reason than it distracted him and helped him to calm down, so that his trousers felt normal again in their fitting.  Something he was extremely grateful for when the door to Sherlock’s room crashed open and jerked John back to the present.

 

“John, get dressed, we’re going out,” Sherlock called as he walked down the hall swiftly.  John blinked.

 

“I am dressed, where are we-” he started, but stopped short when Sherlock came into view.

 

He couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping.  He was in a hell of a lot of trouble now.  Sherlock was standing in front of him wearing… Ah, Christ.

 

“A-are those…” he started, eyes wide in shock. “Are you wearing _hot pants_!?”

 

“I do believe that’s what they are commonly referred to as, yes,” he younger man confirmed, shifting his weight as he glanced down his body.  John glanced down his body too.  His legs… and he was… well, how he was managing to conceal the very intense erection that was threatening to emerge, he would probably never know.

 

“And…” John tried again, voice hoarse.  He swallowed, taking in the white top, with it’s real short sleeves and v-neck. “And a...um, wow, that’s barely a t-shirt.”

 

“Your powers of observation continue to astound me,” Sherlock drawled with a sigh.  Either the detective was oblivious to just how flustered he was making John right now, or didn’t care enough to draw attention to it.  Either way, John was glad.  He didn’t know what he would do if something was actually said about his reaction.

 

“Where the hell are we going that has you dressed like that?” he asked after a moment, trying to breath slowly to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest.  Jesus, Sherlock looked so sexy.  Did the man realize how irresistible he was?

 

“Bar.  Now go change.”

 

John sighed, but turned and headed out of the kitchen so he could go up to his room.  Once alone, he peeled off his clothes and thought about what he had that was more bar-appropriate.  He definitely didn’t own anything remotely close to what Sherlock had on.  Which was… Good lord, John had a lot of good new wanking material now.

 

He palmed at his half hard erection through his pants slightly as he dug through his dresser.  He was in trouble.

 

\------------------

 

Sherlock was pleased with his decision, and intrigued by John’s reaction to it.  It had clearly not been what he’d expected, and Sherlock noticed more than once how John pointedly did not look at him as they took a taxi over to the place he had in mind.  The clothing choice was rather extreme and absurd, but it was most logical for the evening’s activities.

 

It wasn’t until he had found himself undercover in a club in Hamburg a little over a year into his time away from London that he had discovered what that kind of atmosphere did for his mind.  He had been too focused on tracking down and taking care of a big player of Moriarty’s his first time there to notice, but upon his return the following evening, he found that it… wasn’t an unpleasant place to spend a few hours.  Take a well-mixed alcoholic beverage and add the rhythmic thumping that came with this kind of bar, and it allowed his senses to fade away and just focus on the there and then.  The music, if listened to on a more artistic level or even for casual recreation, would no doubt be some of the most awful drivel he’d ever come across.  In these kinds of scenarios, however, it was passable.  It was danceable.  And Sherlock Holmes loved to dance.

 

He could not have a case.  He could not have John.  But he could have this.

 

As the cab slowed, he reached into his small pocket and pulled out the appropriate amount of notes, thrusting them up at the driver as he opened the door and climbed out.  He heard John follow suit behind him, and he glanced over at the somewhat inconspicuous entrance.  The music could already the vaguely heard, even if it was nothing more than the thumping of the rather obnoxious bass.  

 

He glanced over at his flat mate, who had come to stand beside him, hands shoved in the pockets of his form-fitted jeans.  He was trying to ignore how attracted he was to John currently (something he was trying to do daily, but this more casual outfit seemed to heighten that).  While he still insisted on layering for whatever reason, thankfully he’d left any of his hideous jumpers at home.  Without being aware that they were going to this kind of place, John had pulled on jeans and a black t-shirt that had a slight v-neck to it (though not as obvious as his own).  He’d pulled a red and black striped button-up on over it, yet left it unbuttoned and rolled the sleeves up to just above his elbows.  It was lovely.  Sherlock wanted to take him into the alley across from them and shove him against the wall…

 

“This is not just a bar,” John commented, pulling Sherlock away from his terribly dirty train of thought.  He smiled slightly and nodded.

 

“Indeed,” he confirmed, motioning the older man to follow as they wandered up to the bouncer, who didn’t do much besides grunt and verify their IDs before waving them in.

 

“This is a _gay bar_ ,” John hissed, having to lean close to be heard more appropriately.  Sherlock could smell his shampoo.  He shivered.

 

“You continue to be entirely accurate, John,” Sherlock half-shouted over the music as they headed down the short hall towards the main area.  He’d been here a few times since his return to London, all by himself until now of course, though there was something about having John here that made it better.  At least it would give him things to think about later when he was alone.

 

“Let’s go get a drink,” he suggested, reaching out to take hold of John’s elbow and steer him towards the bar.  John seemed startled by the soft touch, but let himself be led over.  Sherlock leaned over the bar seductively, as he had done before, to order himself vodka with cranberry.  John, predictably, ordered a beer, to which Sherlock gave an amused look.  Once they both got their drinks, Sherlock opened up a tab under his name, and they stood next to each other as they drank.

 

“Why here?” John asked after a few moments of silence.  Sherlock was already half-finished with his first drink and letting the warmth of the alcohol settle into his body.  Already his mind was quieting a bit, and he was relaxed in his posture.  This was exactly what he’d needed.

 

“It’s not boring,” he smirked, eyes flashing in return.  Something changed in John’s that Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out, but it was really no matter.  They gazed at each other for a moment, and Sherlock could sweat the air was thick between them.  He couldn’t figure out what it was, but he didn’t want to.  The point of being here was to shut his brain off, not try and deduce every second of his interactions with someone.  Not even John.  So, he cut their eye contact by shooting the rest of his drink in one go, before turning to order another.

 

\------------------

 

John watched Sherlock drink three vodka and cranberries in complete surprise.  He didn’t miss a single way the detective’s body moved; the way he leaned against the bar and stuck his hip out, the way he shifted his weight slowly as he spoke, the way he grinned as he accepted his drinks.  It was the most seductive body language he’d ever witnessed with Sherlock, and he knew he’d go mad if he kept watching his all night.  

 

After his pint, his flat mate interrupted before he could order another, and instead he found a whiskey being put into his hand.

 

“If the point was to drink beer, John, we could have gone to a pub,” Sherlock had said then, smirking at him in an amused way.  John shuddered, but the subject of his ridiculous desire had turned and (hopefully) hadn’t seen it.  He couldn’t keep his eyes off him, watching the way his pale cheeks started to get a bit flush due to alcohol and the warmth in the place.  His eyes couldn’t help but run across his slender body, seeing so much that damn outfit didn’t hide.

 

It was only when Sherlock started being handed drinks by other men did John notice that there _were_ people around them.  Not only that, but a lot of people were staring at Sherlock exactly how John had caught himself staring.  It was clear there were many people in here that were attracted to him.  He’d lost count at how many drinks Sherlock had been given at this point, but the man drank them all, and with each one he got more loose and fluid.  John’s heart was pounding.

 

Sherlock turned to him then, saying something about dancing, and tried to pull John out on the dance floor with him.  Panic flooded through the doctor, because lord knows he could not dance, and if he got out there on that floor with Sherlock and became in that close of proximity with him, it would for sure be his undoing.  So he made a lame excuse, which caused his heart to flutter as he drew a genuine laugh from Sherlock, before he was left alone at the bar.

 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and staring down at the drink in his hand.  Someone else had bought this one too.  Nice to know someone in this joint found him attractive, at least.  Next to Sherlock, though… Christ, Sherlock was so attractive.  It was painful how much he was.  He fidgeted, running the pad of his finger along the edge of the glass, feeling the cool condensation of it counter the heat of the club.  He licked his lips before taking another drink, closing his eyes as he felt the pleasant burn slide down his throat to pool in his stomach.  He was definitely tipsy now, and it was that comfortable area of drunkenness that he was fine swimming in for a while.  Too much more and it might get bad.

 

Ignoring his pounding heart, he finished the drink and set the glass down on the bar.  Then, he turned away quickly enough to hopefully avoid getting handed another one, and his eyes scanned the dance floor.  He’d lost track of Sherlock, more to try and calm himself down than anything, but he wondered where the man had gone off to.  He hunted through the practical sea of bodies, dancing and grinding and doing all manner of inappropriate things, when he finally found him.  Even in such a mass of people, that pale skin and those jet-black curls stuck out like fire in a dark room.  Maybe that was just how bad John really had it.

 

Of course, when his eyes settled and he noticed what was going on, his jaw dropped.  It was… no.  No.  He’d never seen Sherlock act like this before, and it had caught him completely off guard.  Add that to the alcohol he’d consumed, and the amount of inward struggle he’d been having recently, and the jealousy flared up hotter than anything he’d ever experienced before.

 

\------------------

 

 _This_.  This is exactly what Sherlock had needed.  For as irritating and annoying as people could be, that never seemed to bother him in these situations.  He was successfully drunk and the music was getting more and more pleasing by the minute.  Once he’d gotten out on the dance floor, he closed his eyes and let his body take over.  Instinct moved him in dancing, and he would raise his arms up above his head and let his head fall forward or back, depending on whatever he felt the music called for.  It wasn’t long until his lips were parted slightly in pants, and there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead and on his neck.

 

His mind was pleasantly quiet.  It was perfect.  

 

A few songs in and he’d attracted attention.  Not purposely, of course, but this always seemed to happen.  Along with the drinks that were bought for him when he lingered at the bar, men were drawn to him on the dance floor.  People wanted to dance with him, they wanted to touch his body, and while he never quite understood the draw, he would never push it away.  There was something surprisingly pleasant about it all.  It helped give him an outlet he now needed, one that he found himself desiring with John, but… Well, that would never happen.  It was hardly a suitable substitute, and it was all fleeting, but that was okay.  It was what he wanted.

 

Huffing out a breath, he opened his eyes as he observed men dancing up to him.  They were rather attractive, all things considered, and he offered them a soft smirk as they moved close.  One was slender, more like he was, and he felt the man press close to him from behind, while the other came to his front.  He was more buff, clearly worked out, most likely had a taxing profession, but… this was not the point of tonight.  He wanted his brain to stay shut off, and while sometimes he had to force the deductions to stop, it was easier to do so with the alcohol.  So overall, his head remained blissfully silent, and he let himself dance.

 

They were close, and it was surprisingly wonderful.  It always surprised him, even after repeat trips all ending up similarly.  Two sets of hands were on his waist.  The man from behind had dipped his head down, clearly brushing his lips and cheek along his shoulder, and Sherlock pressed closer.  He gyrated a bit in time with the music, tilting his head back as the buffer man started to brush his nose along his jawline.  He would most likely kiss one of these men, if not both.  

 

The man in front of him dipped his hands a little lower, and the other set of hands moved higher along his sides.  Hands were slipping under the loose, slightly damp cotton of his shirt, and then there were hot fingertips brushing across the skin of his stomach.  Sherlock couldn’t hold back the soft gasp at the touch.  His senses were heightened due to the whole situation, and he lifted his arms again to give both men more access to his torso.  If he was bold and wanting enough, he knew he could successfully draw one of them somewhere more private and they could provide each other a mutual service.  This was not something he did every time, and it wasn’t something he actively sought out, but sometimes it turned towards that way and Sherlock would not turn it down.  Sexual acts had never been anything of interest for him before, but… now it was.  And engaging in simple activities with a stranger in this club was significantly more interesting than constantly pulling himself off in the shower or the privacy of his bedroom.

 

His eyes opened again and he gazed at the man in front of him who was currently quite fascinated with the exploration of his stomach.  There was an obvious bulge of interest in his trousers, and Sherlock sized him up.  Yes, he would do quite nicely.  Perhaps offering to take him to the back room wouldn’t be such a bad idea…

 

A hand clamping down on his wrist made Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise.  He blinked, head whipping to the side, where they widened even more if that was possible, at seeing who had grabbed him.  It was John.  Not only that, but he was seething.  Sherlock stilled, body freezing enough to catch the attention of both men he had been dancing with, who also turned their eyes towards the newcomer.

 

“Can we help you?” the man in front of him shouted enough to be heard, clearly annoyed at the interruption, but confused and wary at John’s body language.  He wasn’t the only one.  Sherlock didn’t know what to make of what was happening.  He supposed he _had_ slightly forgotten that his flat mate had been left back at the bar, but… that’s not why John was angry.  It couldn’t be.  His mind flared up again despite Sherlock’s efforts, and no.  John’s shoulders were shaking, and both his grasp and his eyes were almost possessive.

 

“Sherlock,” John called out, not taking his eyes off the man whose hands were no longer under his shirt.  The other man was no longer pressed up against him, probably long gone and moved to dance somewhere else. “Come with me.”

 

His voice was hard and full of authority - the unmistakable voice of a Captain - and Sherlock’s eyes dilated.  His face flared up with heat that wasn’t due to the dancing or the alcohol, though he knew his cheeks were already tinted rather brightly from that combination as well.  He barely offered the stranger a second glance as John turned and began to pull him through the sea of bodies.  Sherlock went easily, body pliant to turn against the people on either side of him.  Where were they going?  What was happening?  As always, Sherlock could never pinpoint what was on John’s mind, and it was overwhelmingly confusing.

 

They headed past the bar and towards the toilets.  Sherlock’s eyes were darting back and forth, but they kept moving back to where John’s hand was around his wrist.  There was tension in his shoulders, and the grip was firm (but not painful).  As he flung open the door and they both went inside, the music became muffled due to the barrier and a light was flicked on.  It was a dim light, but Sherlock blinked against the adjustment anyway, and turned to face where John was _locking_ the door.

 

“John?” he asked, blinking rapidly, and finally the shorter man turned and they were facing each other.

 

“What in the _hell_ were you doing?” he asked harshly, hands balled into slightly shaking fists at his sides.  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

 

“I was dancing,” he answered, his voice tight.  As if John had any right to drag him away from what he was doing.  As if he had any right to look at him like that.  It was painful.

 

“Yeah, you sure were,” John snorted, practically growling. “Nice to see you draw over a few dance partners.  They were all over you, Sherlock.  Jesus, they probably wanted to have sex with you.”

 

“I know they did,” Sherlock snapped. “That’s sometimes the _point_ , John.”

 

There were a variety of emotions that swam across John’s face at that comment.  Anger, confusion, frustration, exhaustion… Pain?  Sadness?  Did Sherlock really see that right?  His mind was rebooting, so perhaps not, but…

 

“Jesus, Sherlock, for being a genius you are a complete idiot.  Or a dickhead.  And I can’t decide which would be worse.”

 

Sherlock stared.  He had to think.  What did John _mean_?  He groaned in frustration, gripping at his hair loosely and waving his arms up in the air.

 

“I assure you I have no idea as to what you are referring-” he started to snap again, but his phrase was startled to a halt as John strode forward quicker than he had been prepared for.  The distance between them was closed instantly and their chests were pressed together.  Sherlock could feel both of them panting, and he froze, staring down at John, who was staring back up at him.

 

He didn’t know how many moments had passed.  It seemed to last forever.  The pieces of the puzzle were falling together, and suddenly everything made sense.  He drew in a gasp the second it all made sense, and that broke the spell between them somehow.  John’s eyes grew unfocused for a split second, and then hands were tangling in his hair and he was pulled down into a rough, heated kiss.

 

Sherlock made a noise of surprise as their lips pressed together urgently.  It sent spikes of heat down his spine and immediately into his gut.  Everything he was feeling earlier on the dance floor came flooding back in seconds, only intensified because this was _John_ pressed against him.  His heart was pounding, and his knees threatened to give out on him when he felt John’s tongue slipping out and running against his bottom lip.  He groaned, his lips parting almost involuntarily, and John took advantage of it to dive inside.

 

Sherlock groaned again when their tongues slid against one another.  He could cry, because it was everything he had imagined and so much more.  Their breathing was heavy, and they finally pulled apart with a gasp, John nipping at Sherlock’s lip before the contact was broken.

 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, his voice trembling as he gripped at the front of the shorter man’s shirt tightly.

 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months,” John growled.  The deepness of his voice made Sherlock shiver.  He huffed, eyes fluttering half-lidded with desire.  John’s hands were on his waist now and he was melting into the touch. “Do you have any idea how bloody mental it was for me to see them _touching_ you like this?”

 

John emphasized his point by slipping his hands under Sherlock’s shirt and ran his fingers across his trembling stomach.  Sherlock heard himself whimpering again, lips parted as he arched up into the touch.

 

“Show me, John,” he said breathlessly, licking his lips.  His pupils were blown wide as he gazed down at John, who was currently pushing Sherlock’s top up and gazing at his stomach.  There was a mixture of want and fascination and disbelief on his face, and then they were moving.  John was pushing Sherlock back, and they both moved, until Sherlock could feel himself bump into the sink.  John pushed his shirt up more and slid down onto his knees, running the tip of his nose along his pale, sweaty skin.  His breath was hot, and Sherlock bit his lip and reached out to grip the cool marble of the sink to steady him.

 

John breathed in deeply, and Sherlock trembled.  He could feel every breath and movement of John’s, and it felt so good.  He needed more.  He needed everything.  He stared down at the familiar head of blond hair, so close to his crotch, a visual of so many of his fantasies… He was dying to touch, to run his fingers through that hair, to reassure himself he wasn’t wasted and hallucinating.  Carefully, he released the sink and reached forward, hesitating before sliding his fingers through John’s hair.  It was so soft, just as he knew it would be.

 

The touch caused John to look up at him then, and they stared at each other.  Sherlock swallowed, his mouth dry.  John’s eyes were so dark, completely full of want and lust, and they were for _him_.  He had never fully understood what it was to desire another person so completely that it consumed you.  It had started to happen, slowly, but none of it compared to how he was feeling in this moment.

 

“They can’t have you,” John whispered, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s waist a bit.

 

“I’m yours,” Sherlock managed, and his voice barely sounded like his own.  There was a slight hesitation before his brain could stop him from continuing… “I’ve always been yours.”

 

John made a strangled noise that startled Sherlock, causing his hand to twitch and begin to pull away from where it had nestled comfortably into the older man’s hair.  He was concerned that perhaps he shouldn’t have said that.  He might have just ruined everything before it could properly start.  However, before he could pull away, John was grabbing his wrist and standing, slipping one of his legs in between both of Sherlock’s and crushing their mouths together in another kiss.

 

Sherlock leaned into the kiss, clutching at John and rubbing against his thigh.  He was already overly sensitive due to the evening, and he gasped into the other man’s mouth at the friction before rubbing again almost desperately.  His head was nothing but John, his body screamed for John, and it was everything he’d ever wanted.  Hooking a leg around his flat mate’s waist, Sherlock pushed up, his arse half-sitting on the sink now.  He tugged at John’s shirt roughly, slipping a bit on the marble, moving back so that his hip hit the faucet and caused the water to turn on.  Neither of them noticed.  They just kept grabbing and shifting and kissing, and John’s hands were starting to fumble with the fastening of Sherlock’s shorts, and the younger man almost sobbed in anticipation and desire.

 

He shifted back forward on the sink again, both legs wrapped around John now, and he lifted himself as John finally got his shorts open so they could be tugged at.  He gasped and shivered as his hard cock met cool air, and then almost cried out as steady fingers wrapped around and tugged.

 

“ _Ooohh god John_ ,” he groaned, his head falling back as he arched into the touch. “John _please_.”

 

John was growling again as he leaned in and started sucking on Sherlock’s collarbone.  Sherlock found that he quite liked those animalistic noises he was making.  There was something so instinctual and truthful about it.  Not to mention extremely arousing.  He rocked up into John’s hand and tugged at his shirt even more, gasping as the other man bit down on his skin and started sucking hard.  He was going to leave a mark.  John was marking him.  Sherlock could have come right then.

 

Just as his senses were going into overdrive and he could feel his whole body trembling, John was pulling away.  He whimpered at the loss, instinctively moving forward after him, but a hand steadied him before he could tip over and fall.  He blinked, glancing between them, taking in John’s firey mood, looking down and seeing the bright red hickey forming on his collarbone and the pre-cum glistening on the head of his cock.  He bit his lip, glancing up at John under his eyelashes.  The older man shivered.

 

“John, please,” he whispered, voice shaking desperately.  He never begged, _never_ , but there was nothing he would not do for John Watson.  Absolutely nothing.  He wanted John to take him, to dominate him and consume him.  He wanted to do the same back.  He wanted it all, and finally, _finally_ he felt like he could have it.

 

\------------------

 

John was trying to think.  He was trying to form some kind of coherent thought in his jumbled, jealous, turned on head.  He stood there, panting, taking in the very debauched form of his flat mate, and it was horribly hard to think for once.  Christ, he’d never imagined that it would look so beautiful to see Sherlock sitting, legs spread as best they could be with his shorts shoved down right under his arse.  His erection was jutting right out and John wanted to stroke it again.  He wanted to lick it.  But he knew if he did that, things might end prematurely.  Sherlock was too wound up.  It was amazing, but they had to shift things, because John was not leaving this bathroom without fucking that beautiful man.

 

“Come here,” he said finally, reaching out with his hand.  His voice was rough, and he watched Sherlock’s whole body react positively to the sound of it.  He licked his lips and shifted, pushing down on the sink and sliding to the edge.  John stepped closer, though it was incredibly difficult for him to walk normally, and he helped Sherlock down to his feet.  The younger man gripped at his shorts, pulling them back up almost all the way so they wouldn’t just fall to his ankles.

 

The sink would be the most ideal place for them to take things, but John wasn’t happy with it.  Sherlock would be on his chest on the marble, and while that would be easiest by far, he would be too far away in a sense.  John needed him close.  He needed to have that neck and shoulders near him.  So they needed to move.  To the loo it was.

 

Turning, he took hold of Sherlock’s hand and tugged him over to the stalls.  He peered in, until finally he found one that looked like it hadn’t been touched all day.  Perfect.  He tugged Sherlock in first and then stepped in after him.  With one hand, he reached out and cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull him in for a rough kiss, their bodies pressing together again.  His other hand went to his back pocket, where he fumbled with his wallet for a second.

 

“Turn around,” he commanded.  Sherlock liked it when he commanded, he’d noticed. “Brace the wall with your hands.”  

 

Sherlock did just that, and John had to keep himself from groaning.  He was resting his entire forearms against the tile, which caused his back to dip and his arse to stick out towards him.  John felt dizzy.  He palmed at himself absently, adjusting the aching erection he had yet to free, and just took a moment to stare and appreciate the sight.  Yes, this was all so bloody perfect.  

 

Finally forcing himself to tear his gaze away, he focused on his wallet as he fumbled around until he found what he’d been looking for.  For the first time in months, he thanked the fuck out of himself that he had still kept the condom and lube packets tucked away in there.  He honestly didn’t know what he would have done if that little thing had prevented them from having sex, because John _needed_ to have sex with Sherlock right now.  Seeing those men all up on Sherlock… it had made him mental.  He had never been so jealous before.  And now… now he needed to stake his claim on the detective.  He had been given the chance he never imagined, and he was going to make Sherlock _his_.  It sounded awful, really, but he couldn’t help it, and he was getting no complaints, so… no need to dwell on it now.

 

Dropping his wallet onto the floor next to them, he set the condom and two of the lube packets on top of the metal toilet paper dispenser for him to go back to, and then leaned up against Sherlock.  The younger man whimpered, pressing back against him in the most maddening way, and John had to take a shaky breath and close his eyes for a second.  Sticking the lube just inside his pocket, he reached forward and started to push at the poor excuse for a shirt, lifting it and running his fingers along Sherlock’s stomach and chest.  He leaned down to kiss and lick at any part of skin he had access to, smirking as Sherlock yelped when he pinched at his nipples briefly.

 

He slid down, kissing the entire way, his hands fluttering along Sherlock’s stomach and hips and teasing the underside of his erection just enough to feel the man’s hips shift forward into the touch.  Then, he grabbed at the shorts again and pushed them back down.  With Sherlock’s position, they stopped about halfway down his thighs, but that was really all they needed.

 

He flicked his tongue out to brush along the top of Sherlock’s arse, before pressing closer and biting down on the soft flesh.  The younger man’s body jumped and moved into the touch, and Sherlock was whimpering in a rather obscene fashion.  He never imagined pulling those kinds of noises out of him, and he loved every single one of them.  Then, moving down a bit more, he slid his tongue out and ran it in between Sherlock’s cheeks.

 

“ ** _Jooohnnnn_** ,” he cried out, pressing away at first before moving back against him, silently pleading for more.  And more John gave.  He pressed his tongue in more, finding Sherlock’s entrance, and practically turning the detective into a puddle above him.

 

“J-john, if you don’t… I’m going… _ooohhhgoodddddd_.”

 

John was also surprised with how vocal Sherlock was being.  He was exceeding his fantasies in every way, and it was bloody amazing.  He didn’t need to finish the sentence for John to know what he was warning about, so he pulled away with one more bite to his cheek before tugging out the lube packet again.  He tore it open and squeezed it out, coating his fingers and then dropping the packet on the floor.

 

He teased Sherlock’s entrance again, glancing up to watch him as he brushed against it with one finger.  With the whimper it caused, he pushed in.  The finger took easily, causing John to wonder if it hadn’t been as long as he’d first thought for the younger man.  That wasn’t a bad thing, considering the desperation and urgency they were both feeling right now.  John was a doctor, after all, and an extremely considerate lover, and the last thing he wanted to do was actually hurt Sherlock.  He concentrated, wanting to get this part right, turning his wrist and curling his finger just the right way before adding a second.  Sherlock was rocking back against him, panting, and after John had gotten in a third it was time.

 

Withdrawing his fingers all together, John stood slowly and fumbled with his trousers.  His belt clinked as he tossed it open, and Sherlock was turning to watch over his shoulder, eyes flicking down to the movements as John pushed the materials open and down to just under his arse.  John noticed Sherlock bite his lip and stare in awe as his own erection was finally out in the open too, and they looked at each other for a moment before John pressed against him for another kiss.  His cock was trapped between Sherlock’s cheeks as they kissed, and when the younger man wriggled against it, John broke the kiss with a gasp and a curse.

 

Reaching over, he snatched the condom up, ripped the packet open and took it out, shifting back so he could roll it on.  He bit his lip, shivering at the touch as he did so, and then reach for the other lube packets he’d tossed up there.  He did the same, opening them and coating himself, letting his eyes run along the pale curves of Sherlock’s back.  As he pressed close again, Sherlock seemed to reinforce the way his arms were pressed against the tile and open his legs wider.  John took hold of his hips and pulled back a bit, biting his lip and breathing heavily as he positioned himself and felt his head pressed against his entrance.

 

John closed his eyes for a second and listened to his heart pound.  He took one deep breath, and then a second, before licking his lips and pressing his hips forward.  When he breached Sherlock, the younger man gasped, his hands balling into tight fists.  Everything else remained relaxed, though, further proving the point of his experience in the area, which unfortunately only flared John’s jealousy a bit.  He bent forward slightly as he moved in, and Sherlock shifted to rest one of his knees up on the toilet seat, and _oh_.  That was exactly it.  He pressed all the way in, his chest against Sherlock’s back and his face against his shoulder.  It was a bit strange with their height difference, but it was perfect.

 

“Move,” Sherlock growled after a second, rolling his hips just enough to move John out and back in slightly.  This flared his arousal and he did just that, wrapping an arm around his waist and sliding the other up his chest.  He pushed at the shirt again, running his fingernails along the skin and brushing against his nipples again.  They started breathing in unison as John got quicker, Sherlock taking to him quite easily, until finally he was pounding into the detective a bit desperately.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” he gasped, bending his head forward so he could start kissing and biting at his shoulder again.  Sherlock groaned, letting out a breathy ‘yes’ that only encouraged John even more.  He moved faster, harder, eagerly at his partner’s begging requests.  The steady bass of the club music was muffled but still loud, yet neither of them noticed anymore.  The only sounds they were now paying attention to was each other’s breaths, moans, and the sound of their skin hitting against each other.  

 

John felt sweat slide down his neck, and he shivered a bit, sucking at the same spot on Sherlock’s shoulder.  It was no doubt going to be purple when he was done, and that’s exactly what he wanted.  The hand that had been roaming his chest moved down, brushing along his stomach and towards his crotch.  As his fingers started to rub there, wrapping around the shaft loosely, he could feel how moist it had become with the amount of precum leaking out of it, sliding down the shaft and onto his _shorts_ even.  It was so fucking hot.  

 

John growled as he wrapped his fingers around more securely, all but slamming into Sherlock as he started to pump his cock in time with his thrusts.  Sherlock was writhing and twitching against him, constantly trying to press back against John’s body, as if nothing was enough.  And maybe it wasn’t enough.  But it was everything both of them could do, and it was overwhelming.

 

After a while, John’s thrusts began to get less steady.  It was the first sign that he was close.  He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder blade, clenching his teeth and hissing as he panted and fucked the other man as hard as he could.  Their bodies were rocking together, and his hand stuttered as he continued to stroke Sherlock, until he felt the younger man stiffen and cry out louder than he’d ever heard his entire life.

 

He barely stalled in his thrusts as he felt the sticky warmth of Sherlock’s semen spurting out and covering his hand.  He continued to stroke him through his orgasm, squeezing gently and massaging the glans until Sherlock was twitching.  Feeling Sherlock tighten around John during it all practically drove the man out of his mind, and he moved both hands to grip tightly at Sherlock’s waist as he thrust in a few more times.

 

“Fuc- _Sherlock_ ,” he cried out, squeezing tightly and pushing in hard as he came.  Time seemed to slow for those few seconds, his heart practically beating out of his chest and his limbs twitching slightly until he was finally spent.  They were both panting and sweating, trembling at the force behind it all.  Finally, John pulled out, licking his dry lips and shivering as Sherlock groaned at the loss.

 

Shakily, he pulled off the filled condom and tossed it in the small rubbish bin beside the toilet.  He took a step back to give Sherlock some space, glancing down and fumbling with his trousers as he tried to pull them back up and tuck himself inside.  Sherlock turned, attempting to do the same, and John couldn’t help but glance down at him.

 

There was some come on Sherlock’s shorts, but… He tilted his head to the side, where the saw the majority of it on the wall and the toilet seat.  He blinked, bit his lip, and their eyes connected for a moment before they both burst out into hysterical giggles.

 

“That was… the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done,” John breathed, grinning like an absolute idiot.  Sherlock was beaming too, in a way that lit up his whole face and made him absolutely radiant.  Unable to stop himself, John reached up and slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, rubbing through his curls and against his scalp, pulling him in for another kiss.  This one was slow and borderline worshipping.  Sherlock’s hands were on John’s face, stroking his cheeks, and they licked into each other’s mouth unhurriedly, taking the time to explore and taste one another.  

 

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, pale eyes flashing in recollection.  It made John start to giggle again a bit.

 

“Come on you mad man,” he whispered, rubbing the tips of their noses together before stepping back. “Let’s go home.”

 

“Oh, I thought you would want to parade me around the dance floor so everyone could see how you marked me,” Sherlock commented, arching an eyebrow as he glanced at the **very** obvious, bright purple hickey that was not at all hidden by his shirt.  John smirked.

 

“We’ll be sure to saunter right past them,” he said, taking a moment to bend down and pick up the things he had previous discarded.  

  
They left the bathroom with their fingers intertwined.  They did weave through and walk past the men that had been dancing with Sherlock earlier, and John gave them a heated and obvious look, along with the smirk of knowing that he would forever have what they wanted.


End file.
